Author Archives: Kelly Simmons

When you called me in the car and told me you’d already faxed the forms to the college, called the sports medicine specialist on campus, arranged for the boot measurement, and verified there was an appointment for my daughter the next day, you thought you’d lost me.

Hello? Hello? You said as if the call had been dropped.

I’m here, I said. I’m just so . . . stunned. And touched. And thankful.

That’s why we’re here, she replied.

And I thought to myself, that is what you don’t see on the hospital website. We are specialists in disease, orthopedics, and in cutting through red tape for scared moms whose kids are far from home.

Sincerely,

Mom

P.S. I’m sorry she went out dancing in her cast last night. She swears you never said “no dancing.”

I know you must think, in the tundra days of winter, that you have the worst job in the world. I know your bosses must wonder, as traffic flies by you and doesn’t stop, that advertising doesn’t work.

But when I saw you, your yellow arm waving with a wide swath, saying hello to every passerby with a frosty exhale, I waved to you. And when you waved back, then bowed with your spiky ray hat, I smiled the whole rest of my commute.

I didn’t think: “Look there’s an idiot in a sun suit.” I thought, “There is a person who does a difficult job extremely well.”

I wanted to write to your boss and tell him so, but when I doubled back the next day, driving up and down a four-block stretch where I was sure you’d been, expecting to see a business called “Sun Jewelers” or “Sun Dry Cleaners”, I didn’t see any place remotely like that.

The publishing business is rough. You pop champagne over a hefty advance, you vow to donate some of it to charity, and the next thing you know, you’re signing a stack of books in the mall and no one’s waiting in line except the assistant manager of the store and John Mc Cain wearing a hat and dark glasses (which incidentally, is about as good a look for him as the scrunchie was for you.)

Hillary, Hillary, Hillary. Sales are down. Your editor is in big twubble. You know what you need? You need to write some guest blog posts for Bookylicious and InMyStacks. Throw yourself some book signings with red white and blue cupcakes you pay for yourself. Have Chelsea make a video with you and some kittens and tweet that shit out.

If you’re really just an ordinary person, as you keep insisting . . .try acting like an ordinary author. And go sell your book, missy.

Of course your therapist told you to communicate your needs And why not? After all, the world begs to know. Every status update, every check in, every survey. Tell us what you’re thinking. Tell us what you’re feeling.

And there it goes: A stream of saying what can’t be unsaid, a steady droning whine of complaint.

You sound like a pocket bike passing me on a highway. Move over. Listen to me.

I am not sitting on the other side of the door hoping you crash. But when you break down by the side of the road,

It’s not big or fancy or bold. Out back, it’s dappled light. The scent of something sweet in the air. The feel of moss beneath your hand when you hide behind a tree. In the front, it’s a porch and shutters. And all around, the faintest of maritime sounds in the distance: boats bobbing against a dock, the whistle of a ferry, the warning whoosh of fog. It’s a wooded place in a harbor town.

They are children. They may look like adults, in their tuxedos and gowns. But these things are false: eyelashes, tans, confidence. They want to do grown up things, they want to do stupid things, they want to do childish things. They want everything, all at once. Forgive them. Protect them. And remember, we’re the ones tipping you, not them.